


bereft

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Codas [35]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Coda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s14e14 Ouroboros, Gen, M/M, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 03:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18044543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: The burial takes all night.According to Sam, burning that many bodies—well over a dozen, by Castiel’s last count—would only incite panic throughout Lebanon, and cutting down that many trees would just cause more trouble than it’s worth. Digging one grave is a hassle in itself, but a mass grave? Never again does Castiel want to see the look on Dean’s face the moment they begin to toss dirt back into the hole, on top of the people they knew so little about, all slain in cold blood.





	bereft

The burial takes all night.

According to Sam, burning that many bodies—well over a dozen, by Castiel’s last count—would only incite panic throughout Lebanon, and cutting down that many trees would just cause more trouble than it’s worth. Digging one grave is a hassle in itself, but a mass grave? Never again does Castiel want to see the look on Dean’s face the moment they begin to toss dirt back into the hole, on top of the people they knew so little about, all slain in cold blood.

Dean won’t look at any of them after they finish, the dawn light creeping up on the horizon, a light wind picking up from the north. Sweat drips from his hair, and the wound on his forehead clots angrily, in desperate need of attention. He doesn’t linger, and no one presses him, even when he wanders off during Sam’s attempt at a last rite, presumably heading indoors. Jack helps gather up the tools and works to console himself the best he can, and Castiel—Castiel doesn’t know what to do.

For a while, long after Sam and Jack leave, Castiel stands there and looks at the unmarked grave, the massive patch of soil a blot amidst the dead grass surrounding it. In the spring, they’ll have to till and seed, all to forget just what lingers beneath the surface. Even then, it’ll take weeks, months, and the memory will remain, the guilt—

Castiel doesn’t think on it anymore. With the birds beginning to sing, he wanders back inside, to the silence that once again encompasses their home. The blood on the library floor and the table in the war room, they’ll clean up later, when the wounds don’t feel so fresh. Sam’s footsteps no longer echo down the halls; instead, Castiel hears the sheets rustle behind his bedroom door, followed by a sigh. Jack’s presence feels more like an omen now. Like a beacon, Castiel senses his grace moving from room to room, floor to floor, but never anywhere close to the dormitories.

Jack doesn’t need sleep—Castiel, though, feels the weight of the world sitting in his chest, the pressure agonizing, keeping him awake.

Standing outside of Dean’s door feels almost like second nature. Here, he no longer worries for Dean’s safety with Michael’s demise, but another feeling manifests in its place, spreading like wildfire—fear. Silently, he turns the knob and steps inside, meeting darkness and Dean’s shallow, clipped breathing. Dean half-hangs off the mattress, dirtied arms spread wide as he looks to the ceiling. In the quiet, his chest rises and falls erratically, fingers twitching; tears leak from his eyes, and the wound to his temple bleeds, ripped back open and staining everything it touches.

“Dean,” Castiel says before he can stop himself, his words doing little to garner Dean’s attention. “You need to shower.”

With some maneuvering, Castiel helps Dean to his feet, and Dean moves with him, magnetic in the way he clings to Castiel’s side. Every time he stumbles, Castiel catches him, shielding his squinting eyes from the light; he should’ve turned it off before, but now, leading Dean towards the showers, arm around his waist, Castiel takes him in, from his bruised face to the dirt and blood caked under his nails. “Come on,” Castiel encourages, fighting off the desperation in his throat, the unease threatening to break free. “You’re almost there.”

Once past the bathroom’s threshold, Castiel closes the door, leaving the lights switched off. In the darkness, he holds Dean steady, hands to his neck, thumbs dipping into the hollow of his throat. There, Castiel feels his pulse race, unreasonably fast, nearly in sync with his breathing. _This is what breaking down looks like_ , Castiel thinks, but holds Dean anyway, helps him undress, his dirtied clothes piling up on the floor. Castiel’s join soon after, and the entire time, he keeps a hand on Dean, remaining a steady presence in his orbit.

All the while, Dean gasps, his breaths rattling, body trembling. Castiel leads him to the shower anyway, fumbling with the knobs until the water warms the room, scalding to his fingertips.

For the first minute, Dean doesn’t speak. Doesn’t do much, really, other than allow Castiel to wash him, running a washcloth over his shoulders, chest, face. His temple, Castiel heals with a swipe of his thumb, and Dean blinks, hands coming up to clasp Castiel’s biceps. Nails dig into his flesh, threatening to break the skin; Castiel just lets it happen, follows Dean to his knees when he slumps, water beating down on his back.

Nothing Castiel said could ever make it right, could ever allay Dean’s misery. Instead, he listens, and holds him while Dean finally—after what feels like years—lets go, his breaths turning to choked sobs, nails dragging reddened tracks down Castiel’s arms. “My fault,” he sputters between gags, body threatening to shake itself apart. “My fault, my—Never should’ve—”

And Castiel doesn’t stop him from spouting off his worst fears: the guilt of saying yes, of watching senseless violence unfold at the tip of his fingers, of the murders he could never stop. And above all, the loss of that pain leaves him bereft, terrifyingly alone in his own body—that feeling, Castiel knows all too well. “I’m here,” Castiel says in way of consolation. Palming down Dean’s back, he allows Dean to burrow closer, his fever-bright forehead pressed to Castiel’s throat. “I’m here.”

“Not real,” Dean mutters, sucking in a lungful of air. “None of this feels real, Cas, nothing. Like a… dream.”

Avoiding the shower spray, Castiel rests his cheek atop Dean’s head. “It’s real,” he says. “And unfortunate as the circumstances are, you’re alive. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Another few minutes of silence, and Castiel feels Dean’s body begin to calm, his heaving gasps exchanged for quiet sighs through his nose. Valiantly, the shower pumps on, and only when the water runs cold does Castiel makes his way to his feet, dragging Dean with him on shaking limbs. “Can’t hurt us,” Dean corrects, and Castiel nods, scrubbing Dean’s hands between his own. “Tired of hurting people. Tired of… all of it.”

“I know,” Castiel says, and means it. “But it’s over now. You’re safe.”

Dean shakes his head. “Never gonna be over, and you know that. There’s gotta be some… loophole somewhere, he’s gonna take over the kid—”

“But that’s in the future.” Gently, he holds Dean’s face in his hands, drawing their foreheads together. “This is now. And right now, you’re alive, and Michael is dead. Whatever happens then, we’ll deal with it as it comes, but for now.” A shake, and Dean’s eyes slip shut against the tears. “Right now, this is your reality. And you’re free, Dean.”

If Dean could laugh, he would; Castiel can see it on his face, his cockiness trying to break loose, but falling flat as soon as it reaches his face. “I wanna sleep,” he says instead, slumping into Castiel’s hold. “Let me sleep.”

Castiel nods, shuts off the water. Under some of his own power, Dean dries off and ties the towel around his waist, leaving his clothes on the floor. Castiel doesn’t bother redressing, simply opting to follow behind Dean, naked as ever. No one happens upon them in the hall, and no one comes knocking after Dean locks the bedroom door behind them, bathing them in darkness once again. Distantly, Castiel hears the towel hit the floor; sheets rustle, and a hand pats the empty side of the bed, beckoning, a request.

One Castiel can’t help but obey.

Later, he decides, they can talk about this. About where they go from here, and how to come to terms with the loss they’ve just endured. The afternoon can wait, though, especially when Dean grapples for Castiel’s thigh, dragging him onto the mattress and into his weary embrace. Dean clings to him under the blankets, soundless; yet, terror radiates off him, and Castiel kisses it away, afterward delighting in Dean’s sigh.

Later, they’ll talk. For now, he lets Dean sleep, possibly for the first time in days—and not once does he ever let go, not for this. Not for the world.  

**Author's Note:**

> Coda time! It's not like I wanted it to be due to scatterbrain, BUT I wrote it, so that's what counts! Now, back to writing Tropefest nonstop ;A;
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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